Neal Caffrey is Dead
by rachaelhighway
Summary: After a rather personal case goes wrong, Neal is taken captive. His captors fake his death, fooling almost everyone. When Neal manages to escape, he is hit with realization: Neal Caffrey is dead. He could go with Mozzie and be free. Live another life. But will he? Or will he go back to his life with a tracking anklet and a criminal record to haunt him?
1. Trust Issues

**Hey people! This is my first WC fanfic. It's an idea I've had for a while now... we'll see how it does on paper… The time frame isn't anywhere in particular, I guess just where we are now in the series! That would be about the middle of season 4 I suppose! Oh and if you have any suggestions for the story, or want me to use a character that I haven't used yet, leave a review or PM me and I will gladly put it in, if I can intertwine that idea or person with the story! I'm an open book! Wish me luck, hope you like! :D**

Chapter One

**Trust Issues**

I look up from my painting when the door opens and Peter comes in, closing the door behind him, an odd look on his face. A look I can't quite put a word to. Is it concern? Or maybe anger? What did I do?

"Peter!" I greet him, setting down my palette of paint and brush and wiping my hands clean on a rag, turning my attention to him. But he doesn't come in or speak back to me. He just leans against the door, eyes on me. Something's definitely wrong.

"What?" I finally ask him.

He closes his eyes for a second and breathes outward sharply, almost annoyed, as if wondering why I would ask such a stupid question. Then he looks back at me and asks, "Did you do it?"

I deflate, cocking my head at him. Of course he would think I'd do it. …What does he think I did? "Do what?" I ask.

"No, Neal, don't give that crap to me," Peter says harshly, taking control of the conversation and stepping forward. "She was right where she was supposed to be. We were right where we were supposed to be. We were seconds away from pinning her when suddenly, the fire alarm goes off—sound familiar?" He doesn't give me a chance to reply. "She got away in a van with somebody else and drove off. We got it all on tape. And don't worry, we got the van, too, along with your little friend. And guess who the person she got in with was?"

Me. He thinks it's me. Obviously, if they got it on tape. And this is Peter, who would believe anything that shows I did exactly what he told me not to. Because he knows I would. What he doesn't know (or doesn't believe) is that sometimes, I can listen to him.

"We got you on tape, Neal."

"Did you get the face?" I ask.

"She certainly did."

I shake my head, pinned.

"Peter," I say as sincerely as I can, looking him in the eye. "I didn't do it."

He only laughs, shaking his head. "Of course you didn't…"

"Peter remember when I said that I have never lied to you?" I snap, taking a moment, wanting him to look at me to see my seriousness. "I meant it. Why don't you trust me?"

"Because you give me nothing to hold on to, Neal," he replies sharply. "You constantly speak of how I need to be more honest, or that we shouldn't keep secrets between each other. Then you turn around and break the law or something. Or you run. You tell me you'll do something and then do another. You constantly prove me right, that I really can't trust you."

I narrow my eyes slightly, hurt. Finally unsure of what to say next. It was a stupid question I asked—I know I can't be trusted. I take a breath (much deeper than I intended), then look back at him. "Did the thought ever occur to you that I might have been framed?"

When Peter doesn't answer, I redirect my question.

"Who was in the car when you found it?" Surely if they had found Harleigh in the car, there would have been somebody else with her. The driver, or the "me" that got in with her.

…Unless she wasn't found in the car…

"Nobody," Peter replies. "The car was abandoned two blocks from where we found her."

Right…

"What happened after that?" I ask.

"We held her for questioning. Asked who it was that helped her escape. Eventually she said Neal Caffrey. Sounded pretty convincing to me. Right now she's in our custody. Right before the sting started, your anklet showed you walking down the street from your house when suddenly, it blinked right back to the house." Peter eyes me suspiciously. "You've manipulated your anklet before. I have no doubt you can do it again."

I roll my eyes and turn around, picking up my paint brush and palette, continuing my work. Peter's being stubborn and is willing to let a criminal go to pin it on me. There's not a lot left I can do. Maybe explain myself? What I was doing while everyone else was out performing a sting without me? And failed? Why it showed me walking down the street? I _was_ walking down the street. But not en route to where they were.

I shouldn't. What's the point? That would be too low and it's likely he wouldn't listen, like throwing a rock against a brick wall. But the conversation has likely ended anyway by now. I know Peter's about to leave, so I throw out some last words.

"I wasn't there, Peter. You're just going to have to trust me on this one."

I hear him let out a breath, eyeing me before opening the door and walking out, shutting it behind him, leaving me alone in the room. His footsteps fade away. For a few seconds, there is silence.

"Well!" comes Mozzie's voice from behind me, sounding just as cheery as ever.

Almost alone.

He comes from the bathroom in one of my robes and plops on the couch a few feet away from me.

"That went well!" he finishes.

I smirk. "Sure did."

While occupying myself with my version of _Flaming June _(a Leighton painting I've grown quite fond of), I go over what the situation with Peter is all about in my head.

A couple of days ago, we got a case. We started investigating a woman named Harleigh Foster, who happens to be an old colleague of mine. She's a thief, among the best I've ever seen. We did several heists together—she's not much of an actress, but she can carry out any lift you set her to, without ever a mistake—until now, I guess. We thought about getting together after a while of conning (came quite close, actually), but that was ruined by another friend of mine… Jason Lang, the guy who kidnapped Peter, however long ago that was. Lang made an attempt on Harleigh's life, of course ever-so-cleverly pinning it on me. She fled after that, and I haven't seen her since until this week.

Harleigh's face was caught on a camera she must have missed. The video showed her finishing off a grid of lasers, intertwining between the last of them, and finally coming upon the ultimate prize: the Titus Dagger. Legends say that a young boy named Titus rose up against an army to defend his wounded brother with nothing more than a dagger and a shield. He defeated the army and returned his brother to safety. Unfortunately, the blade was chipped down the side somewhere in combat. But the dagger was held in the family line for centuries and still lives to represent the tale today.

Do I believe it? Not really.

Anyway, Harleigh skillfully got the dagger out of its sealed glass case and walked out the front door with it. Security guards were found the next morning, knocked out in a utility closet, and the dagger was gone. The FBI has been working on the case ever since.

Me, not so much. Hughes had me sit this case out when he heard Harleigh and I were old colleagues and… he was pretty much trying to avoid exactly what they think happened earlier today. After what happened with Alex, the bureau has been pretty cautious about who they have me "investigate." They don't want me going and getting involved and messing their plans up to protect my old "friends". Or whatever. And they were right to believe I would do that. Because, in fact… I did. Kind of.

When I, um, overheard about the sting they were going to do on her, I found her. And I warned her. That's probably why she escaped. Mozzie was the one who pulled the fire alarms. But why someone was posing as me, I don't know. Maybe someone cut her a deal that if she could get me arrested, or something, she would get money…

Finally deciding to let Moz in on my train of thought, I speak.

"What if someone made a deal with Harleigh?" I ask.

"What are you talking about?" From the tone of voice, Moz doesn't have a clue what I mean.

I drop my paint brush away from the canvas at my side, straightening, probably splattering paint on the floor. "You heard the conversation with Peter, right?"

"_Yeah_, the Suit barged in right when I was about to walk out," Moz replies accusingly, as if he could have as well been naked when Peter walked in. …I don't want to know.

"Okay. So, there was someone dressed as me to get in the car with her. They probably made sure it was on camera, too. I'd have to see the video… But what if Harleigh was paid to get me on that tape? To convince the feds it was me in that car when they asked her? 'Cause Peter sounded pretty convinced. If he is, I'm sure everyone else is, too. And they _caught_ Harleigh? That's impossible. Harleigh _never_ gets caught."

"So you're suggesting that Harleigh got caught on purpose? So she could convince the suits further that it was, in fact, you?" Mozzie inquires.

"Exactly. And she would do anything for the right amount of pay… even get caught."

"Even pin your name on this case so that you can get arrested, even though you saved her ass," Moz adds.

"Yep! Case closed!" I say hopefully, then sigh and sit down. "Partly. We still need to figure out who made her the deal and who was paid to be me."

"Yeah," Moz sighs, then looks at his watch. "And good luck to you with that. But I have somewhere to be." Almost purposely, it looks like, Moz stands up and walks toward the door.

"And you're going to go in my robe?" I ask, an eyebrow raised, because the question was begging to be asked.

My friend stops in his tracks, a slight smile on his face as he turns around and walks back to the bathroom to gather his clothes. "I was fully aware of that," he mutters as he walks past me.

I chuckle silently to myself, turning back to the painting, grateful for the humor he let in. And for the luck—I'm going to need it.

**:D review please! If you want to! If not, that's cool too! Just go ahead and wait for the next chapter! Or click on the next chapter! Wherever you are in your set of mind that is getting on board with the story! If that makes sense. It does to me. Um, yeah. Shutting up…**


	2. Worst Neal Ever

**Hello again! Here's the next chapter! I don't really have a lot to say this time. So…**

**Enjoy!**

**[][][]**

Chapter Two

**Worst Neal Ever**

Almost as soon as Peter walks into the bureau, his junior agent, Jones, asks him almost anxiously, "Did you get anything from Neal?"

Peter turns to him, trying to think up an answer quickly. _Did _he get anything from Neal? Well… maybe he could look into Neal's idea of him being framed. Although Neal has said a lot of things Peter can't bring himself to believe, he does believe Neal that he has never told Peter a lie. And Neal looked him in the eye and said—twice, was it?—that he hadn't done it. For some reason Peter can't get himself completely back on board where he stood before he walked into Caffrey's room.

"I don't know," Peter replies finally, but then sighs and tells the agent his real opinion. "I don't think he was a part of it. There's something not right about the whole thing. I'm going to look into it a little bit more."

Jones is a bit confused. They had spent a while in the conference room after they caught Foster, digging more up on her, replaying the surveillance video where Neal was caught, going over what she had said when they questioned her. He isn't sure how Peter's going to look into it a bit more. But the concern on his friend's face is evident, so as they part ways, Jones makes a mental note to check to see how Peter's digging (deeper) will be going later.

[][][]

It takes Peter half an hour to finally realize what's so wrong about the picture. It's the way "Neal" is running. _It's too practiced, _Peter thinks. _If Neal were really running for an escape car in attempt to save his old friend from us, he wouldn't be striding _that _much like Neal. It seems as if it's that man's time to shine, to be Neal Caffrey for those five seconds he's on a camera. And it's the way the car is parked. It just _happens_ to be in perfect view of the only camera there is outside?_

There's a knock on the door and Diana and Jones walk in. Peter pauses the video.

"Hey, Boss," Diana says. "How's the investigation coming?"

Peter is excited, ready to share what he observed, but then thinks of the results that would happen afterward. These are just teeny tiny details that could mean nothing. Neal could have just been feeling good about himself in the video. "Just a hunch" is what he would end up saying. So Peter comes up with a better strategy. He smiles and sets the video to the beginning, pausing it there and turning to his colleagues.

"Put yourself in Neal's shoes here," Peter says. "The FBI is about to catch your old friend in the act of a crime. Then the fire alarm goes off, probably just as planned. As people are running toward the exits, you grab Foster in the middle of all of the people, showing her your escape route, turning your hat toward most people so they don't see your face—even though the hat and suit completely gives it away that you're Neal. You run out the side door, keeping your hat facing the camera and you hop into the car and drive away." Peter presses play on the video and points to the screen. They watch as this supposed "Neal" strode to the car, opened the car door, got in and turned his head immediately towards Foster as soon as the door is shut—his hat, once again, turning towards the camera.

Peter rewinds it back to the beginning. "Now watch how he runs," he says, playing it again. He can practically feel his fellow agents realize what's wrong. Feeling like he has just won a prize, he turns to Jones and Diana with raised eyebrows. "Now would you really be running that much like Caffrey if you were Caffrey?"

Jones laughs, knowing his boss has hit the spot. Again. "I was about to say… he sure does take a lot of thought into being sure to be Neal."

Diana has the same reaction, saying quietly, "I can't believe we missed that…"

The good feeling in the air that Peter stirred fades after a while, and eventually Jones says, "So it probably wasn't Neal in the car. What do we do next?"

Peter smiles slightly. "We find the man that was."

[][][]

The painting is done. While my mind has been on who could be the one to want to frame me, and probably pay (or steal) a fortune to do it, my hands have cleverly set the definition of the painting to the paper. The girl's dress in the painting is now, officially, "flaming" and the background is perfect. The wrinkles in the orange dress and on the blanket on the chair she lies on are some of the best I've ever done. Satisfied, I smile.

Then my phone vibrates with a text. So I clean most of the paint on my hands off on a rag, then walk over to get my phone from the table. I open the text.

_Peter: I might have cleared your name. Need you at the bureau. Now._

I look up from the text and almost laugh in joy. Even after how pissed he was at me, he's still willing to help me out when I need it. I hit _Reply._

_Aw how nice of you, Peter! On my way._

So I set my phone back down and clean out the paint brushes and palette before I forget about them again (wasn't good last time), quickly get changed and washed up, then gather my things and head out, doing my little hat-flip as I walk out the door—even though nobody's here to see it.

[][][]

I'm headed towards Peter's office when, as I walk up the stairs, I see him through the glass of the conference room, going through some files. I walk in.

"So I heard something on my way here," I say, and Peter looks up at me, not a trace of anger on his face. If anything, I'd say amusement. I clear my throat slightly for effect. "Something about me being right?"

"I said no such thing," is his reply, and he motions for me to sit. So I do.

_Didn't say you were the one who said it, _is what I almost say. But then I think he might get the wrong idea, so I keep my mouth shut.

"Thought you might want to see this before we get started," Peter says, a remote in hand, pointing it toward the TV and hitting play.

It's the surveillance video of how Harleigh and the guy posing as me get away from the scene. They come in from the bottom of the screen, running like everybody else. There's a black Sonata parked conveniently in plain sight of the camera—mistake number one. It almost seems as if it were directed to that particular spot… Then the other "me" fails at trying to run like me—mistake number two. There's no eye contact or communication at all, not even a look between Harleigh and this guy to determine which side of the car the other would get on… It's all practiced. Repeatedly. This Neal gets on the side closest to the camera while Harleigh goes around to the other (probably so he doesn't have to turn towards the camera), then the second his door shuts he turns toward Harleigh, who isn't quite all the way in yet: a nervous tick to look away from the camera, ensuring that it doesn't see his face once. The car speeds off before Harleigh has her door shut all the way, but she does and the car speeds off to the side of the screen—but not before I get a glimpse of the blurry license plate: LHS-2350.

When Peter turns the TV off, I turn to him, a revolted look on my face. I take a breath, holding it there for a second before saying, "Peter, _please_ tell me that that video is how you figured out I wasn't there." Surely, Peter Burke would have picked up on at least _one _of those things…

Peter smiles. "That is how I figured out you weren't there."

"That was probably the worst stunt I've ever seen," I go on, with the same wide-eyed-disgusted face, then grin at my next thought. "And it took you how long to figure this out…?"

Peter gives me a look. "Oh shush," he says. "I was still trying to contain my rage by seeing you there."

"But it wasn't me there."

"No, but however bad his acting may be, he does look a lot like you in the video," he replies.

"It wasn't just his acting…" I point out, then shrug. I _guess_ he could have been mistaken for me…

Peter shrugs too. "Okay, so we need to figure out who that guy really was."

I nod.

"Do you know of anyone in her past it could be?"

"I've been wondering about the same thing, Peter," I reply, leaning back in my chair. "I don't know. I'm sure she has plenty of partners and enemies..." I breathe, getting ready for an explanation. "The thing about Harleigh is, she will do _anything _for money. Especially anything for a nice adrenaline rush. Anyone could have offered her this job."

"Which one?" he asks.

"This one. Her framing me to get me into trouble."

"A little tattle tale," Peter smirks, then thinks of something, pointing his finger. "But she got caught."

"Purposely," I add. "Another thing, she _never _gets caught. Unless paid enough, and there's a plan behind it."

"Boss," says Diana, who walks in the room, looking a bit flustered.

Peter looks up.

"Foster's gone."

**There ya go! Hope you liked! Review please! =D**


	3. Something About me Being Right

**Hey guys! Thanks for all of my lovely viewers, reviewers, followers, and favoriters! It means a whole lot to me and gives me encouragement to write on! This chapter reveals more about our "man behind it all" and the story behind the job that's supposed to get Neal into trouble. The question is, is he supposed to get in trouble with the FBI? Or something more dangerous?**

**Here you go!**

**p.s. did you notice yet that the title for this chapter is a line from the last chapter? :D**

**[][][]**

Chapter 3

**Something About me being Right**

"Alright I want camera footage from every angle she could have walked by from the past hour, and I want a team out looking high and low for her. I will not let her slip through our fingers!"

I interrupt Peter's tirade for a moment. "Wait, Peter."

Reluctantly, he turns his attention to me.

"Get that team to follow her once they find her," I say. "Harleigh could lead us to whoever is behind all of this."

Peter eyes me suspiciously, probably wondering why I would be giving him ideas that would lead to my old "friends" to being behind bars. But he nods and makes the announcement to everybody.

"Can I go?" I ask him, but I don't know why. It's not like I want to do anything, I guess I'm just anxious to see who this guy is. Even if it means being in the van. But that's not likely in this case, so I'm not worried.

"It's probably best if you didn't," Peter replies.

I frown but nod, understanding. "What do you want me to do?" I ask.

Again, there's that look. Peter turns to me. "Why are you so anxious to help?"

I shrug. "I guess I just want to see who's behind all this."

Peter nods. "Stay here. Do what you can. I'm going to find Harleigh." And with that, he leaves, going down the stairs and leaving with the small team that assembled for the mission.

I stand there for a moment, a little confused, wondering why he used her first name, instead of the trending FBI saying where they refer to people by their last names. But I let it go, knowing that it's probably nothing, and go downstairs to see how the camera process is going at Diana's desk.

[][][]

"Found her."

Peter smiles. "Good work, Jones. In a minute, pull the car over and we'll split up. Jones, you're with me. Wang and DeSilva, you go underground. Make sure she doesn't see you and meet up with us wherever she takes us. Got it?"

The agents agree and carry out their plan. Peter and Jones follow Foster for a few blocks, almost losing her a couple of times in the crowds. But she doesn't seem to notice them, and she walks right into a warehouse.

"It's done," Foster says as soon as the door shuts. Peter closes in on a window and listens, peeking to see Foster in the middle of a big room. He draws his gun close.

"Is anyone following you?" comes a voice. A male voice, deep and ominous. _That would be our "man behind it all", _Peter thinks. For now, his strategy is to eavesdrop on all that he can, then when his other fellow agents get here, storm the castle and take them both down.

Harleigh shakes her head. "No."

"Good. Is Caffrey—"

"Yes," Harleigh interrupts, almost sounding annoyed. "Everything went as planned."

"Was it worth it?"

A look of confusion crosses her face. "Getting my name in the system? No, it wasn't."

"I'll have a new name for you shortly," says the man.

"And the money?"

"It'll be transferred to your new account by tomorrow."

Harleigh huffs. "Where's Carter?"

"Oh, I believe he's back at the apartment," the man replies.

"And Kaidan?"

"Safe at home, like I promised."

Peter narrows his eyes. _Something's not right about this… _he thinks. Then he turns to see the rest of his fellow agents coming in on the scene, holding up a finger to silence them. Wang and DeSilva approach silently, getting into a position next to the warehouse.

"We're done, Turner," Harleigh says. "I don't ever want to hear from you again." With that, she turns and heads for the door.

_This is it, _Peter thinks, and motions for the agents to get in position. Then as soon as the doors open, Harleigh is surrounded by shouting agents and guns. Peter watches her face, changing from surprise to fear to expressionless. She has a gun in her hand, and after a fraction of an understanding look in her eyes, she sets the weapon on the ground and raises her hands slowly, almost innocently. As soon as that happens and they're safe, Jones and Peter retreat farther into the warehouse in search of this "Turner." But nobody's there. Peter turns to see another door in the back moving, bouncing back and forth against the metal frame. With one look to Jones, the two run through the door, guns drawn, but all they come across is an empty alleyway with busy streets on either side.

They've lost him.

[][][]

When the boys come back to the front of the warehouse, they find an interesting scene. Foster is on the ground, handcuffed, being pinned by Agent DeSilva's foot, a gun to her head, and Agent Wang seems to be recovering from a bloody nose.

"What happened?" Peter asks.

"Foster thought it'd be fun to run," DeSilva replies, glancing at the fugitive and smirking.

After a second, Peter nods, understanding what went on. Wang must have been handcuffing or holding the thief when Foster elbowed her in the nose, and Agent DeSilva was quick to act and somehow managed to get Foster on the ground at her disposal. Peter smiles and regains himself.

"Good work, agent," he says, just as two backup cars arrive. "I've got it from here."

DeSilva smiles and holsters her weapon, backing off and entering the first car.

Peter helps Foster off the ground and leads her to a car. Just after he opens the door, Foster stops in her tracks and speaks toward the car, but obviously at Peter.

"His name is Wes Turner. Either 252 Duck Street or 621 Maple. I'm not sure which." She looks like she's about to say something else, but instead she just ends up saying, "Please find him." Then she enters the car.

[][][]

I look up from my desk as Peter, Jones, and a few other agents walk in with Harleigh in handcuffs. She glances at me, a look of defeat on her face before she walks past me and they go upstairs. I turn my gaze toward Diana when I realize she's watching me. Then I realize I've been watching Harleigh. Diana only gives me an almost indistinguishable shrug with her eyes, giving me nothing—only acknowledging that she was watching me. I look down, tapping my pencil against my desk, trying to look busy, but my mind is elsewhere. I don't know where exactly, and it bothers me that right now I can't have a straight train of thought. I don't even know what I'm thinking about. I harshly look away from the random corner of a case file I was staring at and try to focus on something else, but my mind will somehow not connect with reality.

_Do something, _I tell myself.

Looking up, it finally hits me: I don't know what to do. I have cases, but there's no way I'll be able to focus on them. I need to talk to Peter. But looking his way, he's pretty busy with this whole Harleigh thing…

So I stand up, deciding I'll go see how this Harleigh thing is going.

[][][]

"What's going on?" I ask Jones when I get up there. On my way up here, Peter and Harleigh went in a room and started talking. So much for my plan.

"Foster said she would only talk to Burke," Jones replies. He seems just as anxious as me.

I huff. "Anything I can do?"

"As for now, I don't think so," Jones replies, then looks at me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say smoothly, looking back at him in the eye, almost caught off guard. It isn't as convincing as I'd hoped.

"You're not okay with this at all, are you?"

I sigh and deflate. "I don't know. I don't know why I shouldn't be… I just feel unusually interested with this one," I say, feeling a little weird that I'm sharing my feelings. It's not something I usually do. Not to anyone, really, except Moz and Peter.

"Because you and her used to be partners?" Jones guesses.

"I don't know," I reply. "Maybe."

"I guess it's different when you actually know the person," he goes on, something Jones doesn't do a whole lot with me.

I let the words register, then nod at their truth. "I guess so."

_Except that I know her way more than you know…_

[][][]

"Okay, so… let's hear it," Peter says. "You wanted to talk to only me... Here we are."

Harleigh stays silent a moment, then says, "This might be easier if you just ask a question first."

"Alright," Peter replies slowly. "Why did you give me your partner's address?"

"Okay. The guy I told you about? Turner? He isn't my partner. Carter is. Turner is the guy that offered me the job and promised cash. He did the same with Carter."

"I'm guessing Carter is the one who posed as Caffrey?"

Harleigh nods.

"So why did you give me Turner's address?" Peter asks again.

She looks up. "Because he needs to be stopped. He's a killer. I didn't realize until I was in on the job too deep… but once people become irrelevant to the equation…" she trails off.

"Then he doesn't need them anymore." Peter nods, understanding. "So if you knew the job was over and you were irrelevant to the equation, why did you go back to the warehouse?"

Harleigh looks at her hands on the table. "The job was done… but I still had some business to take care of with Turner."

Peter holds up a hand. "I heard the whole conversation. What 'business' did you have to take care of exactly?"

Harleigh sighs, running her fingers through her long, dark blonde hair. "My sister, Kaidan."

Peter recognizes the name from the conversation earlier. _"Safe at home, just like I promised" _is what Turner said. A dark feeling came over Peter. "What about your sister?" he asks.

Harleigh doesn't answer for a couple of seconds. When she does, her voice shakes. "You said you could cut me a deal, right? If I told you everything?"

Peter can't help but think how childlike Harleigh really is. Her actions, her emotions, her impulsive mind… It actually reminds him a bit of Neal.

He nods.

She swallows. "Turner offered me the job. I asked what was in it for me, and he told me half a million. I was already in the middle of another job, so I declined. But then he sent me pictures. They were of Kaidan. He threatened me; said that if I didn't help him, he would kill her. The pictures proved that he could. So I did it. I met Carter, and he said that he was threatened too. Whatever his reason… Turner wanted us to be the ones to do it. He could have easily chosen anybody else. And we're not the only ones he wants…"

"What do you mean?" Peter asks cautiously.

"Well what do you think?" Harleigh asks. "Turner wants Neal dead."

**[][][]**

**DUN DUN DUUUN! Yeah I bet a few of you totally saw that coming. X] well here we go! Next chapter is on its way! :D I've been thinking a lot about the movie Mulan today. Any of you have the same thing going? Weird. Well, review please!**


	4. Vanilla Mochas and Uno

**Hey y'all! Okay so I have a few announcements.**

**THIS IS THE CHAPTER YOU ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR. MAYBE. PSCOTTABLY. YOU MIGHT BE READING THIS TO SEE WHAT NEAL DECIDES. I guess what I'm trying to say is, this is where it really gets interesting.**

**Sooo! I've gotten a few comments, PMs, reviews, about how I've been doing this story as first person from Neal! Well let me tell you about that. I was scrolling through the stories on the White Collar fanfic page, and I noticed that NONE of them are in first person! We NEVER know what goes on in that genius head of his! So I did it. :D I also did this because it is how I always write stories (I like getting into one particular person's head) (that sounded weird but you know what I mean). For me, my stories are always in first person, and are in present tense. That's just how my mind works. **

**I started school today, so I'll be a bit busy from here on out. Do not fear! I will update as much as I can! Sorry if I delay it longer than planned. :/**

**Think that's it… So on with the story!**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter Four

**Vanilla Mochas and Uno**

A dead body. That's what was found at the apartment where Harleigh was supposed to meet this "Carter." We were all pretty sure that the dead body is him, but forensics ran DNA tests anyway, and it is. Turns out his real name is Colin Andrew Carter, and he's a professional hacker. While we were at the whole files thing, we ran some others as well. Such as, Wes Turner. He died in 1995—natural causes. So, we actually have no real progress.

Keep in mind, all of this "we" I'm saying would actually be the FBI. I actually have no part in this anymore. Again. I think Hughes figured, since he thinks I'm innocent and was safe to work the case, I could sit back at my desk and help. Then, a couple hours later, I'm apparently in danger so I'm back off! Only this time I'm being watched _much _more closely—which of course I just love.

After a couple of hours I got sick of it, so now Mozzie and I are at the Burke's, keeping Elizabeth company while she takes a "sick" day off of work and has the house to herself. Well, and the dog, Satchmo. He gives good company, but well, I needed a good excuse to leave. So here we are.

"Stop letting me win, Mozzie!" El says with a playful slap on his arm. "I know you can play this game."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Suit, but you really do beat me on this one. I'm not very familiar with Uno," says Moz.

El glances at me, as if wondering if she could really possibly be the champion of Uno between the two of them, so I reply, "It's true. In fact, I don't know if he's ever played it before… Have you?" I ask Moz.

He hesitates for a bit too long.

Elizabeth drops her cards on the table, not realizing yet that they are in perfect view of her opponent, huffing at Mozzie in disbelief. "I thought you said you could!"

He blushes slightly. "I figured I could learn it fast enough. _To succeed, jump as quickly at opportunities as you do to conclusions. _Benjamin Franklin_."_

"Fine. Well, learn this." El picks up her deck of cards and places one blue card on the deck. "Draw two."

Her opponent obeys, drawing two cards with his poker face up completely. It's his turn. He seems to pick his next card carefully, as if one wrong move could cost him the game. He places it on the deck. "Draw four, and the color is now red."

I see El's face drop, then get playfully angry again. "I don't have any more red, Mozzie! You did that on purpose!"

The man shrugs. "Don't show me your cards next time," he says, then smirks. "And the next four cards that you're going to draw aren't going to help you either."

Elizabeth's jaw drops, maybe wondering where this challenging and card-game-literate man came from.

I smirk at the two of them as I continue to bake dinner for the family. Then the phone rings.

"I've got it," El calls before I even think of picking it up, thinking twice before taking her stack of cards with her to the telephone.

"Hello?" she answers. "Oh, hey, hon. Yeah. It's okay. Hold on a minute." She covers up one end of the phone and leans to me, whispering, "Are you here?"

I think for a second before nodding, replying just as quietly, "I think I can be."

"Sorry, I'm back. Yeah. Actually no, I didn't bake dinner. Neal is. Yep. Smells good, too." She smiles at me for a second. "Yes… Oh, really? Oh—okay, then. Hurry home. Bye, hon."

I start to get a bad feeling by the end of the call. The hesitance in her voice, the hint of bad news… And Peter's coming home now, too…

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing," El says with a sigh, as if maybe her husband was just overreacting. Or that would be me hoping so. Then she says, "But you might want to hurry it up a little with that soup."

[][][]

"I'm home," Peter calls from the door as he shuts it.

"We're in here!" El calls.

Peter comes in and looks from Mozzie, to Elizabeth, to me. He doesn't look very happy. "Afternoon," he says to us all, then looks back at me. "Neal? A word?"

I sigh quietly. _Here we go… _I think and follow Peter into another room.

"What are you doing?" he asks once we're alone.

"Keeping Elizabeth company?" I reply, not understanding why this is such a huge problem.

"Neal, do you understand why you were bumped back off the case?" Peter asks sincerely.

"Yes?" I say, but it still comes out as a question. "Kind of? My escort didn't tell me much."

"Neal," he says sternly. "Wes Turner is trying to kill you."

_What?_

I stare with a confused expression. They certainly forgot to mention _that_ little detail… I try to say something, but I don't know what. Luckily, Peter does first.

"Did no one tell you that?" he asks.

Suddenly the words come flowing. "All they said was that I was in danger. Which isn't a huge shock to me. I thought it was nothing. Nobody told me Turner was on his way to kill me…"

Peter sighs and glances toward the other room, where his wife sits.

Then I get it.

I sigh. "I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to put Elizabeth into harm—I didn't know."

He looks at me. "It's okay, Neal. Thanks for keeping her company and making dinner."

"You want me to leave?" I ask.

Peter thinks about it a moment. "After dinner."

[][][]

Half an hour later, Mozzie and I get off a cab at Starbucks. Peter gave me a big stack of homework to do, so I'm not so bored I'm putting his wife in danger, and I decided I needed some caffeine. There's no way I'm sleeping tonight. I usually would have June make me some of her amazing coffee, but she's probably asleep right now and I don't want to bother her.

Once I order a Vanilla Mocha and wait for my name to be called, Mozzie heads over to the restroom for a moment. I notice the guy who was behind me in line orders the same thing as me, using the name "Scott."

"Thank you, sir. Your drink will be ready momentarily," says the cashier. Scott nods and stands to the side to wait for it to be ready, which happens to be by me.

"Vanilla Mocha's the best," the guy says, obviously aware of the similarity between our orders.

"Nah, I like the cookie crumble the best," I reply, then give him my smooth smile. "But unfortunately, that's not exactly what I need right now…" I gesture toward the stack of papers in my arms, which thankfully have nothing that reveals "FBI PERSON RIGHT HERE" at first glance.

"Eli?" says an employee, with a Vanilla Mocha in her hand.

"Right here," I say, and take my drink. I guess if Mozzie weren't here I would leave, but he's still in the restroom. So I get comfortable.

"Waiting on somebody?" the guy, Scott, asks.

"Yeah, a friend," I say, looking toward the restroom for a bit longer than I intend. _Come on, Moz…_

I look back and take a sip of my mocha, then hesitate. It tastes a little… unusual… The reminder that someone is trying to kill me hits just as I see sparkles.

_Crap! _I think. _They got me!_

I have to call Peter.

"Excuse me," I say to this guy next to me and slip outside, feeling my feet hit the ground much harder than I'm used to, getting out my phone and holding down the number 2. Good thing I decided to put Peter on speed dial, otherwise I'd never be able to type the number.

Suddenly I'm in an alleyway next to Starbucks. I look down and see a phone in my hand, just as Peter's voice answers, "Hello?"

A confused look crosses my face. Why did I call Peter? Why can't I feel anything? I look to the ground and see a Starbucks cup spilling into a puddle next to my feet. Then I remember. I put the phone next to my ear.

"Peter, I—"

A wave of dizziness hits me and I'm leaning against a brick wall, the sound echoing loudly, my forehead in my hands, groaning.

_Was drugged. I was drugged. They got to me, and I think I might die soon._

When I open my eyes slightly, I see the Starbucks cup spinning slowly around on the ground—no, it's me spinning in circles around the cup—no, it's just my stupid drugged head thinking that the room is spinning. I also see scattered papers and my phone, on the ground, with a frantic voice calling "Neal? _Neal?!"_

_I'm here, _I try to say, but it just comes out as a strangled whisper.

Then I hear a car drive right next to me. Only it isn't right next to me, it's at the end of the alley. _That was fast, _I think. Maybe my mind is cutting out certain things I've been living? Like walking down to the alley? How long have I been here?

Wait—I've been through this all before. This all feels like a déjà vu. Did I dream this happened last night? _No, Neal, snap out of it! _I tell myself sharply, but it's no use. I hear people running towards me, their footsteps echoing loudly in my head. I look up for a second, but the dizziness is too much and I fall unconscious.

**Phew! Just writing that scene gave me a headache. :P So what'd you think? Good? Personally, I don't know the first thing about drugging people so this whole scene was based off of my last visit to the dentist! Review if you feel like it! :D**


	5. Sleep Deprivation?

**I AM SO SORRY! It's so freaking late, I know. I am truly sorry. I didn't actually think I'd be **_**this **_**busy. Well, I haven't been completely busy… I've had one of the worst cases of writer's block this time. But I did some plot weaving, and tied a couple of knots, and I think everything will be okay, not to worry. But I have school, homework, soccer, piano lessons, violin lessons, a violin audition next Tuesday I've been preparing for (wish me luck!), and not to mention I'm arranging a bunch of music for my friends (I'm kind of in a band lol).**

**Well, back to the story… I'm so sorry for being so late and leaving you all hanging, then turn around and give you this piece of crap. I'm not very proud of this chapter, but it was the best thing I could get to you fast enough. I really hope I don't lose anyone, like you've lost faith in me or anything…. My worst nightmare!**

**Well, speaking of, here you go.**

**Please enjoy.**

Chapter Five

**Sleep Deprivation?**

It's been a long and tiring day for Peter. He's been loaded with information, dragged around town by a runaway thief, and held four extra hours in the office. He was late for dinner with his wife, then had to deal with Neal. Now _finally_, the world seemed to be allowing him to shower and go to bed peacefully.

Maybe.

Peter's phone vibrates on his bedside table right before he lays down on the soft brown comforter. He looks at his wife, who lays on her side of the bed peacefully and sighs, wondering whether or not he should pick it up. But she nods and tells him that he probably should, so reluctantly, he picks it up and looks at the screen, which tells him that Neal is the one calling him. So he answers it.

"Hello?" Peter says dryly.

There's shuffling on the other end, which immediately causes Peter to pay attention. He hears breathing, but it's shallow and uneven. Peter curses. _I should have driven him home when he asked!_

"Peter, I—"

The words come out panicked, then are cut off by the sound of the other phone dropping to the ground. Peter hears Neal groaning in pain faintly, a noise that makes Peter panic more than ever before.

"Neal?" Peter says, but there isn't an answer. "_Neal?!"_

Elizabeth gets up.

Peter thinks he can hear some sort of response from Neal, but he can't make it out. Then he hears the sounds of a car coming to a halt in the distance. Peter listens more intently. A sliding door opens on a van. Several pairs of footsteps come running. There are voices, but he can't make out anything they're saying. They get really close, almost like the people are picking up the phone. But they're not—Peter is listening to Neal being kidnapped.

Soon he hears nothing again. The sound of the people from the van fade away after the door shuts again and so does the sound of Neal. So he hangs up.

"Let's go."

Peter looks up to see his wife fully clothed, her purse slung around her shoulder, keys in hand. He can't help but smile and reminds himself how much he loves his wife.

About a minute later, Peter and Elizabeth Burke are walking out the door when Peter's phone rings again. He looks at it and sees an unknown caller. Looking up at El, he grows even more serious. This could either be Mozzie or the kidnapper. Quickly answering the call, he hopes for the latter.

"Hello?" Peter replies for the second time this night, then sighs in relief when he hears the voice on the other end.

"Suit, we've got a problem," says Mozzie.

"Yeah, no kidding," Peter replies.

"So you know Neal's been kidnapped?"

"Yeah. I do. I'm on my way now. Do you know where…" he considers what he's asking, "I should go?"

"I don't know. He got kidnapped here at Starbucks on Lexington." There's something in Mozzie's voice that Peter doesn't think he's ever heard before—fear. Mozzie is scared for his partner in crime's life.

"Okay, we'll start there. I'm going to call up the gang."

"You'd better hurry up, Suit."

[][][]

"_Waiting on somebody?"_

"_Yeah, a friend."_

That's when it happened. I turned to look toward the restrooms, willing Mozzie to walk out of them any second, taking my eyes off of my drink for roughly five seconds. When I turned back, I could have sworn that Scott's arm was in the process of resting back at his side. That's when he drugged my drink.

It's clever… I wonder who it really was. Could it have been Turner, the one behind everything I've been through all week? Or one of his little goons? I don't know.

Where am I?

Without thinking, I open my eyes and see a lot of gray right in front of my face. At first I don't know what it is, but then when I'm thinking clearly I realize it's a wall. An eruption of energy flows through me as I remember fully what type of situation I'm in and I try to move—only to find my hands bound behind my back by a painful strip of plastic. Zipties. I sigh silently, all of the energy dropped lower than it was a few seconds ago as the drugs catch up with my head and there's nothing I can do but close my eyes and wait for the headache to pass.

I know I should look around and see what effort I can make on an escape, but all I want to do is curl up and go back to sleep. So I lay there, head pulsing with a painful and empty heartbeat, actually wishing that my captors had given me a gag or something to focus on. Like the ziptie, if it wasn't so tight. I can slip out of most zipties (yes, there's a secret to that too), but this one is too tight, digging deep into my skin, threatening draw blood if I moved too much. It seems _someone_ was angry… So I guess the only thing to do there is wait like a good captive for someone to take it off of me.

After a few minutes of waking myself up and making sure all of my limbs will move, I slowly and painfully turn around so I'm facing away from the wall and observe the room I'm in. It's a big room, with boxes and filing cabinets in stacks around the edges of the room and a door on the far side. There's a small window lighting up the room near the ceiling—a basement window, roughly a foot and a half across, and maybe eight inches high. I doubt I could slip through it that easily. I notice there's a metal desk in the corner to my right, and I know there could be something there I could use. A knife, or just a sharp object that could maybe help me get this ziptie off.

But just as I think that, the door opens. Several pairs of boots crunch against the concrete floor, and I see several men walk in and towards me. I swallow.

"Well, look who's up!" says the man who obviously looks like the leader of the gang.

I don't reply. I'm not very fond of that line… there's nothing a person can say or do to it in this situation. So I just lie there, trying to keep calm. It could be the drugs (not quite sure), but for some reason my emotions are playing with me. So I only breathe.

The man speaks again. "So how you holding up, Neal?"

I clear my throat. "Well I'm ziptied on the floor... Should be a little self-explanatory…"

He laughs. "Glad you're well."

For some reason, how he said that scares me. Something tells me I won't be well for long.

I take a couple of seconds after he speaks to lift myself to a sitting position, using my legs to push me against the wall and I rest my head there. With a sudden jarring thought, I look down and see that my anklet is gone. They must have removed it… I hope Peter knows. Looking back up, I examine the guys. There are four of them, and I only recognize one. It's Scott, the guy from the café. If that's even his name.

"So," I say smoothly, despite my aching head. "What's going on, guys? Why am I ziptied in a basement?"

The first man smiles. "Glad you asked! Well I'm sure you're familiar with the name Wes Turner?"

I narrow my eyes.

"I thought so," he says. "Well, I think you'll feel happy to know that he is not a part of this whatsoever."

"And what is this?" I ask in turn.

"Well your assassination, of course!"

"Ah," I reply, not really that surprised. "I guess that is a relief…" By my tone of voice, I make it clear that I don't know just how that should affect me. If someone kills me, they kill me. I don't think I care which of these bastards does it. I sigh. "So, what now?"

"We get started," says the man.

I'm tempted to ask what he's talking about, but then he turns and heads for the door, while two of his goons take me by the arms and lift me to my feet, and drag me out of the room.

[][][]

_In his dream, he sees Neal. He sees Neal smiling, he sees Neal laughing, and he sees Neal making a fool of himself. He also sees Neal grieving, Neal almost scared, and Neal most of all angry. In his dream, he sees Neal fighting to protect the ones in his life he had grown to love. In the next part of his dream, he sees Neal talking. Not just talking—Neal is telling him about his life. He can't seem to hold on to the words, but somehow he understands them perfectly. He knows what Neal is talking about and he is okay with it. He grows a form of bondage that they have never had before then. Neal looks to the side at him after finishing a sentence, and he notices that there is strain, pain and sorrow in his eyes. Peter takes a breath as if to say something else (he thinks it's starting with a "what" or a "where"), but then his eyes seem to open wider than ever before, and he is back in his living room, leaning back in his armchair, finding himself saying the word aloud, "Where?"_

"What's that, hon?" his wife asks from the other room.

Peter sits up straight in his chair, his mind racing to catch up with reality. _My name is Peter, _he reminds himself, as if he has forgotten, then shakes his head and rubs his eyes and forehead. "Nothing, hon, it's fine," he reassures his wife and stands. Peter examines the computer that is now shut on the table, along with his phone and keys. He had fallen asleep trying to gather information on Neal and Wes Turner and what to do next. He had been sitting in this chair since he got to the house at four in the morning last night, followed by hours of research that had gotten him exactly nowhere. Peter vaguely remembers himself thinking whether or not he should shut the computer as he leaned back in the chair, but he had protested and claimed he was only resting his eyes for a couple of minutes. El must have found the scene this morning and helped him out.

Taking a deep breath, he walks into the kitchen and kisses his wife on the mouth. Then he turns to see her cooking what looks to be Mexican. A look of confusion crosses Peter's face, and he whirls around to look at the clock to find it almost eleven o' clock.

Peter curses. "I'm late. Sorry, hon, but I gotta go."

"Alright," El replies. "See you soon. Bye, hon."

Peter rushes out the door in record time—combing his hair out with his fingers, slipping on shoes and gathering his things and he's out the door. He curses once more once he gets in the car and sees the time. Though it's not a minute later than it was before, it still makes him angry for sleeping in when his friend has been kidnapped.

_Sorry, Neal._

**Well, there you go. I won't ask you to review this time because I don't deserve them! Here, instead I will give you all… um… virtual cookies! Here, take them! Thanks for being such loyal supporters! *throws virtual cookies at your face***

**Um… Okay then! See y'all next time! I promise it'll be sooner!**


	6. Trying

**Hey guys. Sorry for the tardiness as always. I have been stuck on one thing in particular, but in school today I had an (feel free to use a Dug voice from Up here, it's funnier that way) "AHA!" moment and wrote all this up in about an hour. Yay for quick writing and pulling it off! So, about my life… which you probably don't really care about but recently I've enjoyed talking a lot… I made the honor orchestra that y'all wished me luck on! (don't really know if you wished me luck on it or not, but I'm just going to assume you did!) Got second chair! Yay again! Down side, that's one more thing on my plate. But I still have spare time and I for sure have the plot down now, so I will update sooner I promise!**

**Okay, so you're probably just wanting me to get on with it. Or you haven't read this at all and have just gone straight for the chapter. Which I don't blame you for! I do that too. :P**

**Uh… okay so here you go!**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter Six

**Trying**

Nothing. That is what the FBI has accomplished on the missing CI case. It's not hard to miss that it's driving Peter crazy—the man who hasn't slept an entire night since he overslept that day last week, the man who is constantly tapping a pencil on the piles of cases that continue to go unsolved on his desk. The man who has gone over every scrap of evidence they had on Neal's capture—the drugs that were injected into his Starbucks drink (Rohypnol), the papers scattered around the alleyway that Peter had given Neal only minutes before, and Neal's phone (no mysterious fingerprints there). The kidnappers were perfectly clean. He had gone over traffic cams of the black van that took his partner, but there were no plates, and following it on each camera that it passed was a nightmare, but he had done it. The van had eventually driven out of the city, and onto a highway where there were no more cameras, no more ways he could follow them. Peter had driven himself out to a couple of places he believed could hold a band of murderers and a hostage, but with no luck.

Sighing, he finally rests his head on his desk and examines his hands in his lap. This was not usually a stance at which Peter would sit, but he is tired and frustrated and half of him wants to just give it up. There are absolutely no leads, and he doesn't know what to do anymore. Utterly defeated, the agent slowly closes his eyes.

"Peter."

The FBI agent sits straight up immediately like a kid being caught sleeping in class, and accidentally bangs his knee on his desk in the process. Cursing under his breath, he holds his knee with one hand casually and looks up at his boss, Hughes, who regards him thoughtfully.

"Peter, go home," the senior agent says. "There's nothing we can do right now. We've followed every possible lead we have—most of that being you. Our only chance at finding him is if he somehow gives us some sort of communication." After a thought and a look from Peter, he adds, "This is Neal Caffrey we're talking about. Do you really think he won't find a way?"

He let that sink in. Peter let the words register, even though he had been told them already. And he was sure that Neal would find a way to communicate with someone at some point. But it has been exactly five days since his capture, and there is not a trace of him, or the criminals. Which means they're good. Really good. The thing that worries Peter isn't what people are thinking, that Neal hasn't let up a signal yet. It is that, but… it's really whether he is dead or alive, honestly. _Neal Caffrey… dead_. Peter can't even begin to wrap his mind around that thought.

"So go home," Hughes concludes. "Get some sleep. Have a nice dinner with Elizabeth. Got it?"

Peter smiles halfheartedly and nods. "Got it."

[][][]

Later, after Peter's nice dinner with his wife and she had gone to take a shower, Peter changes the channel on the TV back to the news. He had been watching it earlier, eating up every scrap of a clue that could lead him to Neal, but El had taken the remote out of his hand and changed it, telling him that he needs to chill out, giving him the same words about Neal that Hughes did. But now, while El was out of the room for a few minutes, Peter decided to sneak another peek.

He listens to a story drone on about a high school bomb threat, then something about the presidential debate, and then it loses his attention. Peter is about to turn it off when something catches his attention. He turns up the volume and listens, eating up the information like a cookie monster.

Just outside an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Queensbury, New York, there was a body found burnt and abandoned. Peter's heart speeds up. Queensbury… that's roughly three hours away from New York City. That was one of the possible places they could have gone!

Peter listens to an interview with the man who found the body. He found it on one of his walks on a trail that happens to go past the factory. This man doesn't look like a threat… just some guy who found a dead body. A dead, charred, black body… that could possibly belong to Peter's best friend.

He has the number dialed before he even realizes it.

"Hughes."

"Peter… do you happen to be watching the news?" his boss asks.

"Yeah," Peter answers flatly. Is there a hint of _I told you so_ in there that I sense?

"Okay. I just saw it too. I'll have a team on the way in five minutes."

"I want to be on that team," Peter says.

"You can follow. I don't think you'll want me waiting, do you?"

Peter smiles. "No, sir."

[][][]

_Well, hello again, floor._

I chuckle to myself silently before gritting my teeth and sitting up. I've been thrown on this floor too many times now. How long have I been here? As far as I know, a couple of days, but I'm not sure. I'm so not sure that I've almost stopped counting, but then immediately scold myself because I know it can't be much longer than a week. I need to man up and be Neal Caffrey. Being held captive tends to make me lose my touch on the whole untouchable, invincible bravado. Which is hard when I'm forced to be exactly that. I've faltered so many times already, and I've paid for them, too. I don't know what my deal is.

This guy that runs all of this—Jett Blake—has had me running cons. Acting while they steal. We've only done two heists in total so far. And, just like what's happened before, there's no way I can get out of it. Just about every time I've talked to somebody important, I see that red light on their chest. It's started to get annoying, with the thieves always threatening to kill everyone…

Speaking of which, it has happened. Not on my doing, not me saying something wrong or whatever I could have done. I don't think it was me at all. But earlier today, Jett shot one of his own guys for what looked like no reason to me. Then without a word, he tossed the body into a truck and took off. Although I find this suspicious, I don't think it's my problem.

I've been trying to focus on getting out of here. The window? Doesn't work so well. Even though I am rather slim and flexible to a point, there is no way I can squeeze myself through a cereal box like that. I've tried. Another option (which seems like the more Neal Caffrey way to do it anyway) is to drop clues for Peter to pick up on. I've dropped a couple in the process of talking to people, but I don't think my sparks have been enough to start a fire. They are slowly made and cautious sparks (if that's even possible), as to not set off something huge on accident and get a person killed. I need to sit here and think of a real plan—

"Neal Caffrey."

The slow and suave words come from the far end of the room, opposite of the door. The voice is unlike any of the ones I've heard recently, being here. It's feminine. And familiar. I match the voice to a name before her dark blonde mat of wavy hair materializes from behind a row of filing cabinets.

"Harleigh Foster."

**Hahahaha! Saw that coming? No? Awesome. Yes? Oh. Okay then. Review either way! Please!**

**Oh, and if you have time, feel like doing so, and trust my judgment on online things, you should look up Julian Smith on YouTube. I'm particularly thinking about the video "Everything's Okay Now" by him. SO FUNNY. xD You won't be disappointed I promise! Oh and Julian looks like Neal! Kind of! :D**


	7. Neal Caffrey is Dead

**Hey look at this! Updated within 24 hours! Woop woop! Told ya I've got it figured out this time. :D Well hey y'all, thanks for all of your reviews, views, alerts, etc. etc. etc., and for wishing me luck on my audition! I had updated that last chapter before I read the recent reviews, and didn't think you'd actually wish me luck. But you did! Well, a lot of you did! And thanks so much! It means a whole lot. **** and not just about the audition, also the story! I'm so excited about the story. It's the thing I look forward to throughout the day! That, and reading all of your lovely reviews. :D It's really nice to hear people compliment you, let me tell you.**

**Ha ha.**

**Well, back onto the story… oh! Major Peter here in this chapter. He might get a little out of character in the end, and I'm sorry, but this is how I would picture a man like him dealing with the situation he's in. I tried. :/**

**Well, here you go! Enjoy!**

Chapter Seven

**Neal Caffrey… Dead.**

"Hello, Neal," Harleigh says.

I exhale sharply, not believing my eyes. Am I so far gone that I'm hallucinating? This doesn't make sense. "Harleigh," I start, but don't know what exactly to say. Again. "How are you here?" There we go. Not too bad.

"Um, I walked in?" she replies, then laughs at my expression. "I'm really here, Neal."

I deflate, unsure of what to do, so I lean back against the wall again.

"Well, you look like crap," Harleigh says nonchalantly.

"Thanks for the support, I've been working on it," I reply sarcastically. Suddenly, reality hits me in the face. "So are you here to break me out, or…?"

"Perhaps."

"Great. So, what's the plan?" I ask.

"Hold on," she replies. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"How are we getting ahead of ourselves?" I ask sharply, my patience beginning to run thin. "I need to get the hell out of here, before I freaking _die_."

"Neal." Harleigh gets a look on her face that conveys all seriousness. "You've already died."

"What?"

Harleigh smirks and doesn't reply, letting that sink in. Probably enjoying it, too. What is she talking about? Am I seriously dead? I don't remember dying…

"What are you talking about?" I ask, forcing all trains of thought off of their tracks in my head before I start getting crazy ideas.

"Don't feel bad. I just learned about this, too, a couple of minutes ago," she replies casually, looking at her nails. I wait for her to go on. After a couple of seconds she looks at me, as if suddenly realizing that I'm still here. I raise my eyebrows, willing her to go on. She puts her hand down and sighs. "Your Jason Bourne guy over there faked your death! C'mon, Neal, connect the dots!"

I nod, not quite understanding (she obviously has more dots than I do), but getting tired of being the underdog here. "Okay."

Jason Bourne guy? I haven't thought of that before. I suppose he does share some resemblance to the character…

And he faked my death. Well, that would explain the body he hauled on out of here. But how would he pull off that guy being me? Whoa, déjà vu.

I need to get to the point. I'm sick of this game. "What are we going to do? Right now?" I ask.

Harleigh sits down for the first time, criss-cross in front of me, wiping her hands on her pants. "Well, in short, what I'm going to do is this: ditch Plan A, get to my point here, leave, and then, depending on what you say, either come back for you or start early on my run from the FBI." She smiles. "What you're going to do is sit here like a good captive and keep playing these games until I decide to come for you. If that's an option."

I narrow my eyes. Of course she isn't on my side! Well, not completely…

"What's the offer?" I ask.

"Stop looking so worried, Neal," Harleigh replies casually, smirking again. "It's nothing bad. I came to offer you another life."

I know what she means immediately, so I nod. "Okay." My voice is even, urging her to go on.

"You'll have to give up Neal Caffrey, though," she continues. "He's dead, okay?"

"I know what another life means," I snap informingly.

"Good, I'm sure you do. So is that a yes?"

"That's a, _you'd better get me the hell out of here."_

Harleigh smiles, obviously satisfied, and stands. "Good."

"Are you getting the FBI?" I ask, then mentally face-palm.

She looks at me wryly. "Seriously? What do you think?"

"Probably not," I think, but it ends up coming out my mouth anyway.

Harleigh smiles perfectly. "Goodbye, Neal."

With that, she strides over to the window, which I finally notice now is open slightly. Just as I begin thinking there is no way to accomplish what she is about to attempt, she jumps off of the corner of the metal desk and launches herself at the tiny window, slinking through the small space like a bird into a birdhouse.

I sigh, shaking my head, perhaps even jealous.

"I didn't agree to anything," I remind myself, and wrap my arms around my knees and begin waiting patiently for her return. If there will be one.

[][][]

"Peter," Hughes says as he stands in the doorway, a folder in hand.

Peter looks up at his boss, eyeing the folder suspiciously. Could it be the forensics results? Finally? What else could it be? He isn't in the mood for greetings or anything really, not after seeing the body in Queensbury earlier. So he just looks at his boss for him to go on.

Hughes purses his lips, tapping the side of the folder on his left hand as if whatever is in there could hold the key to life and he didn't quite want to give it up yet. But Hughes strides toward Peter's desk and hands him the folder. Peter doesn't open it yet, afraid of what it could contain. Hughes finally speaks. "Forensics handed me this on my way here. Nobody else knows about it yet." With that, he regains his composure and smoothes his tie, then leaves.

Peter looks down at the folder sitting on his desk, his heart dropping. On one side of the envelope, it says in bold, almost mockingly red text, "DNA EVIDENCE." His heart beats faster and his stomach clenches. This is it—the proof of Neal Caffrey's death.

Is he positive that it is? No, but all fingers point that way. Hughes's actions, the gut-churning silence that has been wafting through the air of the White Collar division on the 21st floor. Is it true? Swallowing, Peter picks up the file. The answer is right here, in his hand.

Peter doesn't realize until he starts bending the metal on the other side of the folder that his hands are shaking. He slowly comes to a halt when the flap is open and he can see the top of several white sheets of paper. This is it. _I will contain myself, I will contain myself, _Peter chants in his head as he pulls out the first sheet of paper only halfway. There, near the top, everything else seems to blur except for one line in bold and capitalized letters that run across the page:

**CONCLUSIVE 100% MATCH TO NEAL CAFFREY.**

Peter sets down the folder with a careful but powerful force on his desk, the first sheet still partially pulled out, that bold and contemptuous line staring up at him scornfully. He looks away and tries to suck in a full breath, as he has just noticed that he feels as if someone has kicked him in the gut, but it comes in rather shakily. The entire room suddenly feels as if it's one hundred degrees, and he resists the urge to roll up his sleeves or pull on the collar of his shirt. He just wants to get out of there.

Without really thinking about it, he shoves the paper back in its folder and hides it deep inside his desk, then stands and exits the building entirely. He ignores the looks from his fellow colleagues, as if interacting with them would make him explode. Or burst into flames, which is exactly what he feels like. What Neal felt like. Peter imagines Neal there beside that abandoned factory, writhing in pain as he tries to escape the flames, then blinks the picture away. Before he notices it, he is in his car and turning the key in to ignite the engine, then he drives. He just drives. Doesn't know where, or even if he is doing it correctly, but about two hours later he finds himself in a parking lot by a lake. The parking lot is completely deserted, and not a car or a human being is in sight. Peter is completely alone now.

So he gets out. Peter shuts the car door as silently as possible, as if any noise could wake the dead (he gulps), and he stands there, blinking, his hand still on the handle of his door. Is he even thinking? He doesn't know what to think. What should he be thinking?

The bubble of air that seems to have been forming in his chest grows bigger, and he suddenly releases it all unexpectedly with a heart-wrenching cry and a strong kick to the tire of the car. "DAMN IT!" he screams, and crouches next to the car, his back to the door, his head in his hands. The FBI agent notices the tears streaming down his face when two of them tickle his nose as they stream from his eyes and off of the end of his nose. His shoulders and his hands shake with despair. The heat he had felt earlier in his office and in the car have now been overcome by goose bumps and the knowledge of loss.

Peter feels broken. Like his heart has been taken, chopped up and sent back to him in a delivery box. The emotion he feels is him looking into that box. He closes his eyes, and breathes.

Neal Caffrey… actually dead.

**Ha ha! Yes! Review please. :3**


	8. Good Plans

**Heyy! I don't have a lot to say this time. My life is exactly the same as it was 48 hours ago. Um, in this chapter… I guess we just hear a bunch of back stories and a bunch of loose ends are tied. But do not fear! The story is still far from the end. :]**

**Well, as usual, here you go and enjoy! :D**

Chapter 8

**Good Plans**

Mozzie sits casually at the directed point, acting as if he wasn't following orders from a mysterious text from a mysterious sender. The con man sits back on the bench, observing the peaceful surroundings: the stone birdbath, the pigeons cooing to their heart's delight, the daisies popping out of the ground to be bathed in the warm sunlight, the occasional dog-walker or jogger, or the squirrel that runs up an acorn tree for just another summer snack. It's a nice place to sit and relax or read a book—it's too bad Mozzie doesn't come here that often. Perhaps those plans could be arranged?

A woman approaches him from his right. He doesn't look yet, still pretending to be enthralled by the exquisite surroundings. But from what he can make out, the woman is young, perhaps her mid or early-twenties. Her hair is dark blonde, as if blonde has been held over a fire and browned some around the edges. She sits down next to the con man on the bench and looks in the same direction he does, remaining silent.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" Mozzie asks indifferently.

"Beautiful," the woman replies. Her voice is younger than he had anticipated.

He nods in agreement, then decides to carry on the conversation some. "You come here often?"

"Unfortunately, no." The woman sighs. "I never have time to just _relax_, you know?"

"I understand completely," Mozzie replies, then turns to look at her for the first time. "So, why would you never have time to relax?"

The young woman shrugs, turning to face him as well. "Well, I've kind of got the FBI on my tail and everything…" she trails off.

"Ah." Mozzie nods. When he feels that the normal-people conversation has come to a close, he gets to the point. "So why am _I_ here?"

"Well, you've heard about the most recent news on Neal Caffrey, am I correct?" she asks.

The man hesitates, then slowly nods. "Yeah."

Peter had explained the situation to Mozzie shortly after the man had found out himself. Mozzie thinks that the Suit handled it quite well when he told him, and he had psychologically congratulated the agent for his mental stability while explaining such a painful subject. He could tell that it was a painful subject for the Suit, even if it had been questionable at times before.

Mozzie has been… in a word, calm about the news so far. He hasn't broken down in tears yet—has only been a bit jumpy and slightly more closed off than usual. Although he doesn't admit it or acknowledge this at all, he feels as if any poking or prodding at the topic would likely make him grieve further than he could imagine. He understands that once people pass, they pass, and there's obviously no way to get them back. He knows that it's better to just accept it before further determination drives him to insanity.

"Well, the truth is that he isn't dead."

Mozzie curses. _Seriously? _He thinks. _Thanks a lot, world. _

He looks back at the scenery. "And you know this how?" he asks.

"Back before all of this started—Neal being captured, me being caught—Neal talked to me. He warned me that the FBI was going to do a sting on me the next morning. It was dark. If you don't know the story about our history, I didn't exactly trust him. So, out of pure instinct, I planted a tracker in his jacket pocket. I didn't know why, and I knew at the time that it was farfetched, and that he would probably find it as soon as he walked away from the scene, but he didn't. I've known where Neal was this entire time. And I still do."

Mozzie sucks in a breath and still examines the scenery. So, this is obviously the infamous Harleigh Foster. And she planted a tracker in his pocket. And she knows where that tracker is right now.

"You mean, you know where the tracker is," Mozzie corrects, but Harleigh shakes her head.

"No. I know where Neal is. I saw him just a few hours ago. _After _the story was broadcasted."

The con man's head starts to spin at this, and his breath hitched in his chest. Neal is _alive._

"So where did you see him!?" Mozzie asks incredulously. "Why didn't you try and rescue him if you're the amazing escape artist everyone thinks you are?"

_It's easier to just to accept it before further determination drives one to insanity. _

Mozzie rolls his eyes mentally and forces himself to calm down, to not get his hopes up too high.

"I was only seeing if Neal was actually dead," Harleigh replies. "Which, he isn't."

Mozzie breathes outward. "So now that you know Neal is alive, what's your plan?"

"Talk to you," she says more peacefully than before, crossing one leg over the other. "See if you wanted to run with us."

Mozzie wrinkles his nose in confusion. _Run with us? _He thinks. _Did she talk to Neal?_

"Elaborate, please," the con man says.

"Okay," Harleigh states, then remains silent for a couple of seconds. "Isn't Neal, like, a prisoner here?"

Mozzie hesitates. "Of sorts," he says.

"And hasn't he tried to escape?"

"…Yes."

"Well, I figured, if everyone thinks that Neal Caffrey's dead—which, believe me, they do—he could just join me. I'm about to start running with another life, and he could too. And you kind of follow him everywhere, don't you?"

The con man sitting on the bench relaxes as all of the pieces fit in place. It makes perfect sense, and it's a pretty ingenious plan. Neal could actually run this time—only, _not run. _It would, technically, be an alias, but not one that the FBI could burn. Why would they? Whoever he would be wouldn't be the Neal Caffrey that they think just slipped through their fingers—he'd be a normal civilian!

After a well-measured silence, Harleigh asks the question she came for. "So are you in?"

Mozzie turns and smirks at her, admiring the clever intellect she has proven. "I'm in."

[][][]

I drift in and out of consciousness for a long time. It's nighttime, and the room is completely dark. I keep thinking about the information I've gathered in the past two days or so. That's all I think about, really. I also wonder which person in my life knows which piece of information, and if those who don't know something will learn it. Am _I _missing anything? I know a lot of what Jett Blake knows—I doubt Harleigh or maybe the FBI knows a lot of that information. I know some of what Harleigh knows—which the FBI probably doesn't know. I know that the FBI thinks I'm dead—which everybody probably knows. Am I just the pinnacle of information here? Having branches of information that can't quite reach certain other people?

I wonder what Mozzie knows. Or what Peter knows. Or the rest of what Harleigh knows that she didn't tell me. Does Peter know for sure that I'm dead? Does Mozzie know? I wonder what Mozzie's reaction was when he heard. Does he believe it? Does he refuse to believe it and is out there looking for me? Does Harleigh know that he'd be looking for me? What will Peter think when he learns what Jett Blake knows? And, tracing back a few steps, what does Turner know?

"So why isn't Wes Turner a part of my assassination?" I had asked a couple of days ago. That was before Harleigh, and then Blake had told me that it wasn't actually my assassination—just a trick to everyone else so they wouldn't come looking for me.

Blake had answered honestly and wasn't too wound up by his hostage and teammate asking a good question. "Turner may have seemed like a good, perhaps even challenging villain to you guys in the FBI, but Wes was a mess. He was reckless and did things without a plan—like killing that guy, Colin Carter. He was a talented man and I could have used him for something…"

Later, aka a couple of hours ago, he told me that he had to get a hacker of his own to change my DNA in the database so it would match the body that they found. I figured he meant that if Turner didn't murder Carter, Blake would have used Carter to change my DNA instead of finding a hacker of his own.

It's a pretty good plan. If Jett Blake is that smart, how good could he be for Peter?

**Ooh! How good COULD he be? Review please. :3**


	9. The Dead and the NotSo Dead Neal Caffrey

**Hey you guys! Sorry I kinda ruined my quick-updating streak. I've just been super duper busy lately… :P Sorry this is a little short, too. Well… I guess it's about the average length. Four pages. But I've been trying to make them longer, and I kinda failed this time. Maybe in the next chapter! I'll try to make it at least five or six pages. I've noticed that I like longer chapters better. Idk, you tell me! Long chapters or just how I've been doing them? (that was a hint to review if you didn't catch that lol)**

**Oh and sorry for the time skip in the middle. I just really needed to change scenes, and the next eventful thing that happens is… what happens here. I won't spoil anything. But it'll go back a little bit in the next chapter to explain! Sorry if it confuses you. It's for the best, I promise.**

**Onward!**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter Nine

**The Dead and the Not-So Dead Neal Caffrey**

I am jolted from the first nice sleep I've had in a while by a noise outside the door. Several noises. Shouting, and gun fires. Could it be the FBI? My heart skips a beat at that thought, and I sit up. Could Peter be here to rescue me? And Jones and Diana and Hughes and the rest of them? But abruptly, I remember the most recent events that have happened. Harleigh, offering me another life, seeming pleased and probably coming back to rescue me. It has to be her—everyone else thinks I'm dead.

I sigh. I don't think I've ever wanted to hear the shouting of the FBI announcing their arrival more than I do now. And I don't hear that. The shouting is sounding slightly one-sided, like Jett Blake and his men shouting harsh orders at each other to keep their composure as they are being attacked. To shoot at one target: the intruder.

But after about a minute of Blake's men's scuffling, they slowly die down and retreat. Most of them fade away and go to what sounds like outside, because I begin hearing them out by the window at the far end of the room more than from the actual door. I put my ear against the metal door to hear what's going on with the rest of the men. I can tell that they're there, but I can't tell what they're doing. They just sound confused. From what I can tell there are at least two men. I can probably take down two men. With some help.

Suddenly, I hear the sounds of one person beating up another. It goes on for a few seconds, and I can tell that the men in the room outside my door are being brought down. Smiling, I back away from the door just as someone is slammed into the other side of it several times. Sounds like it hurts. Then, I hear a pad lock beeping and the door finally opens, revealing a very happy and energetic Harleigh. Beside her feet is a man unconscious on the ground.

"Hey," I say coolly, slipping my hands in my pockets.

"Hey," she replies, smiling widely, then eyes the unconscious man beside her. "That felt good. You ready?"

"I am!" I reply, then look around behind her. "You have a getaway car or something?"

She laughs. "What kind of escape artist would I be if I didn't have a getaway car?"

I look at her, not saying anything.

Harleigh clears her throat. "Okay, let's go." With that, she turns and heads out, and I follow her. As we walk by, I count three men knocked unconscious on the ground.

"Where's everyone else?" I ask.

"Outside," she replies simply.

A couple of seconds later, we are out of the door and a white van drives right in front of us. The passenger window is rolled down, and through it, I see—Mozzie?

"Get in!" he yells. Oh, how I've missed that voice… "Hurry!"

Harleigh and I look at each other, smirking, and we run for the car. She gets in the passenger seat and I jump in through the sliding door on the side. Mozzie guns it and we speed away before I even have my door closed, and I laugh as I replay this exact scene in my head that started all of this—only this time, it's better. It really is me and Harleigh, jumping in a getaway car, away from the guys with guns, and Mozzie is in the driver's seat.

I look back out my window, seeing the rest of Jett Blake's men finally understanding what's going on—and looking a bit pissed about it. I see Blake himself raise his gun first, and fire. That's when I know for sure that our good luck has expired.

I expect the bullet to hit me, but instead, it shatters the window that Harleigh has just rolled up and hits her, sending glass shattering. My heart stops for a second, hearing her take a breath and groan in pain. Mozzie, who is driving the car, is also either shocked or hit himself because the car swerves sideways. But as soon as that happens, Harleigh's left hand shoots out and grabs a hold of the steering wheel, shoving it back the way it came, straightening out the car's direction to where it was. I vaguely hear her yell through gritted teeth, "_Drive, _Mozzie!" as I notice that her left hand, which is clutching the steering wheel awkwardly, has blood dripping off of it.

We're in trouble.

[][][]

~five days later

Peter takes one shaky breath as he watches the casket lower into the ground. Beside him, Elizabeth starts crying again, so he tries to distract himself by running his fingers through her hair and looking around. It broke his heart to see how many people have come to Neal's funeral. It is literally _everybody. _June, Hughes, Diana, Jones, Mozzie, Sara, a bunch of FBI agents (some of which Peter doesn't even know), and even Kramer had come from DC. Almost all of them spoke about Neal in front of everybody, about how he had started out as a pain in the butt, but then always proved himself an invaluable friend in the end.

And although nobody said it, Peter knew that his speech had the biggest affect on the crowd. Hearing the heart-warming words about Neal from his "second" best friend—the whole story, from having just another case file thrown on his desk, from chasing Neal for years and finally catching him (twice), from treating him as a criminal to a friend to pretty much a son—it had every person in the crowd tearing up.

Except for Mozzie. Peter had watched Mozzie, and the man was… unusually quiet. Granted, his best friend had just died and all… Peter forces the thought away, sighing. Mozzie was just grieving. In his own, Mozzie way. There's nothing more to it. What else could there be?

As soon as the burial is finished, people finally start leaving the depressing site, many of them apologizing to Peter for his loss. As if Peter was the dead man's own father. He can't help but smile at that.

Peter hasn't been at work since he got the news. He heard that Harleigh Foster escaped, _again, _but hasn't been assigned on the case. In fact, everyone had gotten at least a little break at the loss of one of their own. Harleigh technically _is _top priority, but nobody is treating it like one.

Soon, Mozzie is the one that approaches Peter, and his heart drops. What will Mozzie do now that Neal is gone?

"Hey, Suit," Mozzie says, breaking eye contact and turns, looking in the direction Peter is.

"Hey, Mozzie," Peter replies casually, surprised that Mozzie is acting somewhat like a normal person. Saying "hey" and not actually getting to the point before the other person has a time to acknowledge his presence. Peter regards him kindly.

After a peaceful and normal silence, Mozzie takes a deep breath. "Well, that's that," he says, and turns to the Suit, looking weary. "I think New York and I have come to a close. I'm going to Neal's apartment later to get some of my stuff. I've already cleared out all my safe houses."

Peter turns to him also, listening intently.

"I mean… I just have to go," Mozzie continues. His eyes at first had been glazed with sadness, but now they have gone back to normal Mozzie, as if he has remembered… something… A flash of confusion crosses Peter's eyes, but that is quickly diminished as Mozzie sighs. "It's been a good couple of chapters, Suit. It really has. But I won't allow my story to end with something like this. That's why I'm leaving, and I don't know if I'll be back or not."

Peter's mouth opens, unable to say anything. He had been expecting this, of course, but finally hearing it from Mozzie himself had knocked the breath out of him, and his heart twisted inside his chest—he is going to lose another friend. Thankfully, it wasn't going to be the same way as the first friend he had lost, but, Peter is still going to lose Mozzie…

The thought of Neal and Mozzie, the genius criminal duo, so cruelly plucked from his life, makes his life seem almost pointless.

Mozzie goes on. "Thanks for everything, Suit." He turns to Elizabeth, who has been quiet this whole time. "And you." Mozzie smiles slightly. "You've always made everything a bit more fun and interesting. Thank you for that." This time, he looks at both of them. "And this is where we say goodbye. So, goodbye, Suit. Mrs. Suit."

"Goodbye, Mozzie," Elizabeth says, tears streaming down her face. A second later, she breathes out and wraps her arms around the little guy. Mozzie smiles and returns the hug.

Peter smiles proudly at the scene, then wonders if this could really be it. After everything they've went through, it's just going to end like this. He frowns at this thought. It couldn't have all been for nothing, could it?

When Elizabeth and Mozzie pull away, the con man looks back at the FBI agent and smiles.

"Thanks for, um, arresting Neal," he says. "None of this would've happened if you didn't. And… know that I would do it all over again if I could." Mozzie looks at the agent a bit longer than needed as he says this, then sighs. "Farewell," he says, smiling, then bows and turns around, then walks away.

Elizabeth turns and buries her face in Peter's shoulder. Distractedly, he strokes her hair as he watches Mozzie walk away, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. After a couple of seconds, his wife notices this, and looks up into his eyes.

"What…?" she asks suspiciously.

The smile suddenly grows. "This is probably really farfetched," he begins. "But I didn't even begin to think of if Neal…"

A flicker of hope crosses his wife's eyes as she finishes, "Isn't dead?"

He only smiles more as the pieces of his theory fall into place. The DNA evidence… that was the only proof of Neal Caffrey's death. It would take some time and serious hacking abilities, and (although nobody would ever admit it) it is possible to hack into the database where Neal's DNA is recorded. Plus the burnt body… what could be a better way to sell the story? Of course they wouldn't use Neal's real body…

So if Neal could be alive… could he still be in trouble?

Peter's gut feeling finally feels satisfied, and all of the urging he has felt finally stopped. He always has gut feelings about Neal, even before they had really met. And they have served right every time. So Neal could be alive. Possibly.

The FBI agent looks at the grave, which in engraved letters says, "R.I.P. Neal Caffrey. 1978-2012" and his chest tightens. Peter remembers Neal telling him how he had faked his death many times in the past—now someone had done it for him. Maybe. And if he could escape… would he come back to the FBI? Neal could run if he wanted to. Peter sighs. This is definitely a long shot. And without further evidence, he sure as hell isn't going to be telling anyone outside his wife about it. He can just picture Reese, exhaling despairingly as Peter claims his best friend could still be alive.

No, Peter decides. He definitely won't be telling anyone soon.

**Ahaa! What could Mozzie be up to?! And now Peter suspects. How will this turn out? Mwahahaha. More soon. :D**

**Oh look what I figured out today! FISHY! **


	10. Harleigh Foster

**WOO HOO! Seven pages! There's a record. Well, I have no legitimate announcements here, except that there is something in this chapter that makes this story rated T. I won't say exactly what it is, it's a surprise! ;D I'm sorry if you don't like it, it was a bit of a shock here too. But whatever!**

**ONWARD!**

**Enjoy. :D**

Chapter Ten

**Harleigh Foster**

It has been three days since the escape. We are currently in a hotel somewhere in Maryland. I'm glad to finally be away from that hellhole place, and I know that this was probably the only way I could have gotten out. But I feel like I've betrayed Peter, betrayed the FBI. Well, truth be told, I don't feel the same sympathy for the FBI. Peter is the one I feel I've betrayed. After everything we've gone through together—him busting his butt to get me back to New York, nearly losing his job for me, him defending me from pretty much everything—I'm just going to walk away with a sword stuck in his heart. The cruel part is that he doesn't think I put it the sword there. Technically, I didn't, but I walked away like I am okay with it.

I'm not, really. I don't know what to do. _Again. _I hate feeling this way so much.

"Okay, I'm leaving," Mozzie announces as he grabs the keys, then turns to me. "Anything you want me to say at your funeral?"

My throat clenches. He's going to see Peter… all of them, maybe… and I'm not. I think I hate Neal Caffrey being dead. "Just sell the part," I end up saying, even though my mind screams otherwise.

Mozzie pauses at my voice, and I curse a jumbled up string of words in my head as I think that perhaps I've lost my touch. I try and reassure myself that this is Mozzie, who can't be conned. The side of his lip quirks upwards, as if he can read my thoughts (who knows?), and then opens the door.

"Play nice, you two!" he shouts through the room. "I'll be back by tomorrow night at most."

Then he shuts the door and is gone.

Silence.

So I turn to look at Harleigh. I open my mouth to say something, but she interrupts. "I'm going to shower," she says, turning on her heel and entering the bathroom with a small pile of clothes in her arms, shutting the door behind her.

Silence.

This is quickly broken by the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. With the tension broken and solitude at last, I sigh loudly and lie back on the bed. As soon as I'm still, staring at the ceiling, eyes unblinking, I let out a moan in pain, closing my eyes, and turn sideways. It's rare that I'm alone now, and I hate letting people see my pain and vulnerability—even Mozzie. Especially after I've been held captive and beaten up a couple of times. I don't know why. Maybe I don't want to hear their sympathy? Or I'm afraid there will be none? Who knows.

Everything hurts. My ribs have been aching every second and seem to hurt no matter what position I'm in. I have bruises pretty much everywhere except my face (although I did find a shadow of one by my right eye that hurts when I close my eyes, meaning now), leaving me looking pretty normal with my usual getup. In addition, there are couple of cuts, some worse than others, and I always feel like vomiting. My head throbs constantly—just a steady heart beat that makes my brain feel like it can crush in a matter of seconds.

Miserable. That's how I feel.

I hate it all so much. It just makes me that less good.

I open my eyes and stare at the door, thinking about life. My old life, and my new one, whatever that holds. After a couple of minutes, I close my eyes again and I think I fall asleep for a little while. But the next thing I know I am jolted upright by the sound of the bathroom door opening—which my head highly disagrees to. I fight back a groan and mostly conceal it, but it comes out as a sharp breath, and I put my hand to my forehead to try to stop the rushing and dizzying pain.

"Geez, chill out," Harleigh says as she catches sight of me.

I remain silent, bringing my legs in and sitting criss-cross on the bed, running a hand through my hair. After Harleigh puts her dirty clothes in the pile we have accumulated to take to the laundry room later, she grabs a brush and sits on the corner of the twin bed I'm on, slowly brushing her hair out awkwardly with her left hand. I had hardly noticed how much of a righty she is until it she could rarely use it. Her right arm, just a couple of inches below her shoulder, is wrapped in a white bandage that she must have just replaced from where the bullet hit her.

"So, Neal," she says, "I don't know about your life as well as I should. Do you have any siblings or anything?"

"No, I was an only child," I reply, then think, _what does it matter? Why does she want to know? _But I pass the thought off. "What about you?"

"I have a sister, who just graduated high school," Harleigh says. "And I have a brother, but.. I don't actually know if he knows about me."

I think about this. Harleigh, with a sister that just graduated high school. That sure puts everything into a different perspective… "What do you mean?" I ask about her brother.

"Well, I ran off before Wyatt was adopted. And I don't know if Kaidan ever told him about me."

"Oh."

So now, we have the Foster children: Harleigh, Kaidan, and Wyatt. That's cool. I smile. "How old is Wyatt?" I ask.

"Twelve," she replies casually, pulling on a knot in her hair.

"Hold on," I say. "So, you have an eighteen-year-old sister, a twelve-year-old brother… and how old are you?"

She turns to me and smiles. "My parents liked the wait. I am twenty-six, as of a few days ago."

I shake my head in disbelief. "When was that?" I ask.

"A few days ago." She smirks.

It dawns on me how old I really am compared to her. How old Mozzie is, compared to her. Mozzie is nine years older than me, and I am eight years older than Harleigh. I wonder if this affects her at all, or if she feels different around us…

"So, what's your sister like?" I go on, just adding to the conversation.

Harleigh smiles to herself. "Kaidan is a musician. She plays violin, piano, cello, and viola. She's a genius—I've never heard music like what she makes. I swear, music never ceases to flow through her mind. She writes music and arranges music, and many people are too stubborn and selfish to look and see what she really is. She said that in school, people ignore her a lot, but she has friends. She's mostly quiet. But once she gets to know you, it's like she pours her soul into you and you just have to love her…" she trails off with a smile bigger than what she started with.

So music is Kaidan's artwork. I think that's the only way I can understand the passion that Harleigh is describing.

I watch Harleigh's eyes, how they have a look in them that I've never imagined she could have, the love for her sister glazed over her big brown eyes.

As soon as I see this, she forces herself out of it and looks down, back to normal Harleigh, and the love-struck smile has vanished from her face.

"What?" I ask, searching for some trace of what I saw.

She looks up and at me, locks eyes with me, then looks back down. "Nothing," she mutters.

I look down too, at my hands, wondering if I should continue. After a couple of seconds, I say, "I wish I had siblings."

"Why?" she asks.

I smile. "To be able to feel the way you just did."

This makes her smile, too, looking down, her wet hair falling over her face perfectly. I can't take my eyes off of her. "It is a nice feeling, isn't it?" she asks, but I think it was mostly to herself.

I look down and continue smiling, continuing to wish I could feel love for people like she does. But my head is still throbbing, despite my efforts at ignoring it. I am about to get up take some more Aleve, but am stopped by Harleigh, who has moved right in front of me without me noticing, and she crashes her lips against mine.

Whoa.

Although it surprises me, I relax after a moment, and kiss her back as fiercely as she does. I close my eyes. My fingers run through her wet hair, which looks darker than usual because of its wetness. For a second, I stop, realizing what's happening, letting her work. I pay attention. She kisses so passionately, almost desperately. I wonder if this is because she is attracted to me (if she does, she's never shown signs of it before that I've noticed), or because of the need she felt just moments before. Does she feel this much need to love someone? Does she miss her sister this much?

I continue. I move my arms down her body, her hips, her legs, pulling her closer. She presses against me harder, and our legs twist together. It's almost like a dance. A competition. Her lips move from my face to my neck, and she bites, and I run my hands from her shoulders and down her arms—then she yelps and tears away.

This takes me by surprise, and for a moment I don't know what's going on. She collapses on her back next to me, holding her wound with her left hand—then I understand. I must have pressed on her wound or something. Harleigh practically screams through her teeth, throwing her head back on the pillows and biting her lip, still holding her wound protectively.

I turn to face her, then say sincerely, "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

My voice makes her stop, her muscles stiff. In a second she's sitting up, her head in her hands. After a few seconds of that, she stands and leaves the room before I can stop her.

_Well, that went just great._

I sigh and sit up, wondering what to do. I feel like Peter does when a woman cries right now. Should I go after her? It's not like she can really go anywhere. Mozzie has the new car that we um… commandeered. She's probably just outside the door, getting some fresh air.

_Well, if that's the case…_

I stand up and straighten out my shirt (a T-shirt, believe it or not), run a hand through my hair, and exit the room as well. Sure enough, I find her on the landing outside our door, looking into the perfect view of the parking lot, her hands on the rail. I mimic her stance and watch a car find a parking space. Once it does, I speak.

"You okay?"

She nods. "Yeah. I'm sorry for… everything that just happened…"

I laugh encouragingly. "Don't worry about it. I'm sorry for hurting your arm." I laugh quietly, thinking back to Cape Verde a couple of months ago when I was shot in the leg. "I know what that feels like."

"You've been shot before?" she inquires, turning to me, raising a brow.

"Yep, a few months ago," I reply.

"Nice," she states. "Only that time, huh?"

"What, have you been shot more than once?" I counter, picking up that this must be a contest. If it is, I'm probably going to lose.

"I have!" she beams. "This would be my third time. Second time this year."

(That would be the sound of me losing.)

I laugh in disbelief. "No way."

"Uh, yes way, actually!"

"Where?"

"Well, my arm"—she gestures to the bandage wrapped around her arm—"my shoulder"—she points to her left shoulder—"and my chest."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm serious. Died for two whole minutes."

"Two _whole_ minutes, huh?" I question, as if the "whole" could make all the difference in the world.

"Yep."

After a moment, I finally resent. "Well, I'm surprised. I figured such a cunning thief like yourself wouldn't get involved with murderers that much."

"Well, one of them wasn't a murderer," she replies. "She was a cop."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah."

"Any cool stories on that one?" I ask.

"Not really," Harleigh replies. "I was just running away from a bunch of cops, turned a corner and she was there. I got away, though."

"How'd you get away with a wound like that?" I ask. I don't know if she is referring to the chest wound or the shoulder wound, but I still can't picture her standing up and running away from a scene like that with either of them.

"I went to the hospital," she replies. Now that, I can understand. "And then, when I was strong enough to get on my feet stably, I just escaped the hospital."

I nod, impressed. "Nice."

"Yep. Then, when I got shot in the chest, there was a sniper."

"Sounds interesting. Gonna tell about that one, too?"

Harleigh laughs. "Maybe later. Do you realize what we are talking about? _Where _we're talking about it?"

I look around and get what she means. There could be anyone in a room around ours, in which case they can possibly hear our entire conversation of bullet wounds and thieving. I laugh and nod. "You think we should leave?"

"Just to be safe." She nods and heads back inside our little room. Once I close the door behind us, she says, "There's another motel I saw about two miles down the road."

"Alright," I reply, beginning to pack my new stuff quickly (we did some shopping yesterday). Once that's finished, I pack Mozzie's stuff, too. I'll contact him about where we're going once we get there. Harleigh gets out a cloth to wipe for fingerprints, picks up loose hair—anything to convince anyone that we were never here.

In about five minutes, the place looks better than if the housekeeping lady came through. Harleigh shoulders her black bag, then turns to me. "You ready for a walk?" she asks.

"Of course," I reply, and together we walk out of the room.

If there was ever any awkwardness about the events that happened about ten minutes ago, it certainly goes unnoticed. I smile and begin to feel the rush of being on the run again, but then I remind myself that this running is only temporary, until we can find a permanent living situation.

_Permanent living situation._

The words hit me hard, and I instantly wish that we had stayed. That the cops would have found us, that I would eventually turn up back in New York City, where I could see Peter again (behind bars or not). But I picture his face. The expression in his eyes as he realizes that I ran from them so cruelly and didn't look back for a second. _Utter betrayal. _He would wonder what kind of a friend I really was to him. Think that I am perfectly fine knowing everyone grieved as much as they did—the pain I was okay putting Elizabeth through as she cried at night. As June cried at night.

This time it feels like the sword is in my chest, twisting and turning and I deserve it. For a second, I even choke as if the sword is real. I hurt Peter. I hurt Elizabeth. I hurt June. I know that somewhere, I even hurt Diana and Jones.

I hurt them _all_.

**Aw, Neal! It isn't all your fault!**

**Well… that was the first make out scene I've ever written. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. I tried to make it as appropriate as I could—no major details or removing of clothing or anything like that. (Sorry but I really, REALLY hate those rape and sex fics. They make me mad. Here is my shoutout to fellow fanfiction authors (not necessarily WC authors, haven't seen it a lot here) that once you post it on this website, other people CAN read it! There are some stories that you just need to keep hidden in your little notebook under your bed!)**

**Anyways… tell me what y'all think! ….About the story and the chapter, not exactly Neal and Harleigh making out. And, in case you were wondering, Kaidan Foster **_**does **_**hold a slight resemblance to myself. More like I'm a wannabe of her. I'm still working on graduating high school and composing my own music (although a few days ago I did my first piece! It was a viola solo. =).**

**Review please! :D**


	11. Waffles and the Apartment

**Hello everyone! How are you this fine day? **

…

**Sounds awesome! Well…. Sorry for not updating sooner. I've been… busy… But I figured y'all need an update! This past week has been pretty traumatizing, actually. I have a good excuse for not updating. Why? Well, I'm guessing a couple of you have heard of that shooting and a suicide in a school? All over the news. Well, that was my school. :/ Luckily, I wasn't a witness of the scene (unlike a lot of my friends and classmates) but I was part of the panic. It was probably the most scary thing that's ever happened to me. It was nothing like it is in movies and stuff. It was awful. I didn't even know the guy! But the stories I've heard and the change in everyone in my class… Ugh. Everyone I've talked to has had nightmares about it. Even me! I'm writing a story about it. (I know right? There's finally something in my life worth writing about!)**

**Anyways. Sorry for rambling. If you want to hear any more about my life, or my experience, we do have these things called PMs! :D**

**Well, here's the chapter!**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter Eleven

**Waffles and the Apartment**

Mozzie rummages through the drawers of Neal's old apartment, searching for things they might need on their next big run. Usually he can clear out safe houses in minutes if he needs to, but it's different now. First of all, it isn't a safe house. It's Neal's apartment. _Old apartment_. Second, he can't exactly clear it out. Too suspicious. Everyone thinks Neal's dead. So this should actually take less time than clearing.

But… it's Neal's apartment. There is no "old." It will always be Neal's apartment. Mozzie knows that June will never give it to anyone else. It is and forever shall be labeled Neal's apartment. That's the way it should be.

Mozzie is usually very keen on this decision that he and his accomplices have made. But being here… it doesn't have the same feeling. There's something different about running with everyone looking for you and running with everyone thinking you're dead. "Everyone" being all of your friends you've made this time. Not just FBI. There's a certain betrayal there that even Mozzie feels.

He opens Neal's safes. Puts IDs, passports, cash, and other of Mozzie's own items in a duffle bag. As an afterthought, he brings along a couple of Neal's paints that Neal had hidden and buries them deep in the duffle, just in case anyone would happen to have a peek inside when he isn't looking. Mozzie is sure to keep all of his things at first sight. He packs classical books, a large majority of Neal's personal items that Mozzie knows he couldn't live without (which thankfully isn't much), and his computer.

Granted, all of these things definitely could have been left, but Mozzie couldn't resist coming back just one last time. To see the place, speak with June, and leave a spark.

On his way out of the building, he gives June one last hug. June cries a lot, and Mozzie can't help but let a few tears fall down his own face. It hurts him to see her like this, and he wishes for her sake (and others, perhaps even his) that they will come back. Mozzie takes one last look at June before he closes the front door and walks down the steps.

[][][]

Peter sits on his couch, staring into nothingness. Elizabeth can't even think of the time when he sat down. That's where he's been since they got home from the funeral a couple of hours ago. All he does is think. The TV has been on at some point, but was eventually turned off, as Peter found it rather annoying and an interruption to his thoughts.

Is Neal alive? Is Neal dead? Never in Peter's life have those questions felt so odd. Is Neal in trouble? Is Neal free? Does Mozzie think he is alive? Is Mozzie—

Mozzie.

He said he was going to Neal's place later. To pick up things.

Could it be a hint at something?

Peter can take a hint.

So without another thought, he stands, keys already in hand, and announces to his wife that he will be back. Then he leaves.

Peter doesn't know how long it took him to get to June's home, or even if he did it legally. Being an emotional wreck really does mess with you on small things like that. Autopilot is your friend in times like these. But he mounts those steps just as he has done every other day—every normal day—and rings the doorbell. June answers the door instead of one of her maids, a sadistic display of tears running down her cheeks.

"Oh, Peter," June says, and lets more tears flow. Peter's heart drops at the sight of her. _Neal, what have you done? _"Please, come in." June opens the door a bit wider to allow Peter to enter.

He does. And he stands there in the entryway awkwardly, unsure of what to do. When June shuts the door, he asks abruptly, "Is Mozzie here?"

June smiles halfheartedly. "He just left a couple of minutes ago."

No. No, it doesn't matter. Surely Mozzie didn't plan to meet up with Peter later. He already said goodbye. He was hinting at Neal's apartment. So that's where he should go.

Is he serious? Is Peter scraping hard dirt trying to find answers that most likely don't exist? Probably. But he always goes with his gut. He can't think of a time when it's been wrong. So he thanks June and dismisses himself upstairs.

Being in Neal's apartment again, is different. The air is still. There's no criminal mind in here keeping things busy anymore. Things are gone. Even a layer of dust has settled on the table and the bookshelves. Peter sighs and moves around, looking for something, but he doesn't know what. He moves almost mechanically, like the only thing keeping him moving is the small ember of hope planted in his mind that Neal is alive. Moving books around, he finds some missing that Moz must have taken. The ones he recognizes are gone are just classical, Mozzie-typed books, and none of them are hiding much (really, you'd be surprised at how much Neal and Mozzie hide in books). It surprises Peter how much he remembers about the place. How one thing removed cannot go unnoticed.

Slowly but surely, he makes his way from one side of the room to the other. There are boxes under Neal's bed and on top of the bookshelves and secret compartments that Peter knows about, and even joked to Neal about a couple of times. ("Nope, you won't be sneaking into any of those while I'm alive," is what Neal said once. Peter swallows) But he can't bring himself to look in any of them. Though he was suspicious of them before, it seems like way too much an invasion of privacy. And with Neal being such a touchy subject to everyone right now, he just doesn't really want to.

There are other things, though, that Peter finds. Things that Neal has kept throughout the years. He's surprised at how much of it is FBI case "souvenirs." Such as the College of Criminology Syllabus (one of Neal's favorites, no doubt), Peter and Neal's "five minutes of oxygen" breather (when did he get that?), the Bored Art showing program, The Architect business card… so much of it. Peter had no idea how much Neal actually enjoyed being an FBI consultant until now. He did enjoy it, didn't he? If he didn't, why would he keep all of this stuff?

Soon Peter makes his way to the fireplace. Now motivated with a newfound energy, he is back to being Agent Burke, untouchable and indestructible. He moves with a glint in his eye, and a fraction of a grin on his face as he carefully searches for clues, like he's used to doing. And by the time he gets around the room and back to the door, he groans when he sees it. There, in plain sight, written in the dust on a small table, is the message, plain as day:

COME

FIND

US.

[][][]

Mozzie has been back for about a day now. The three of us are eating toaster waffles around a small table in silence. It doesn't seem to bother Moz or Harleigh, but silence in a not-so-good situation will be the death of me someday. I can't stand it. I _have _to be doing something.

"So, Moz," I start, clearing my throat. "Got any progress on where to go?"

"More than you think," he replies. "I was thinking… Florida, perhaps? Or maybe the Bahamas might be a better espy…"

I smirk. "You haven't done anything, have you?"

Mozzie is procrastinating. He doesn't want to go, either! Well, glad I'm not alone.

When Mozzie doesn't reply, I put my fork down and wipe my mouth. "I'm done," I say. "I can't do this."

Harleigh looks at me, confusion evident on her face. She looks from me, to my waffle, and back to me. Does she think I'm talking about breakfast?

"What?" she finally asks.

"I'm going back to New York," I declare.

Stunned silence. Harleigh just stares, disbelieving, and Mozzie smiles for a second before that quickly vanishes. A part of my audacity crumples (thankfully not visibly), as I take note that Mozzie has done something. Something to make me not want to go back. That must be what he's been working on besides our second round of island plans. Whether this is good or bad, I don't know.

"What—why?" Harleigh asks, completely incredulous. "You were in _chains, _Neal! Now you want to skip out on freedom just because you start getting cozy with your captors?!"

"My 'captors' have gotten me out from behind bars more times than I can count," I reply sharply. "And they're also my friends."

"Yeah and they've also dragged you back to your little fence more times than you can count, too," Harleigh counters, then heaves a sigh before I can reply. "Look, I get that they've done some good for you. And what can you do in return but like them? But people like us, we have to keep moving. We can't look back. I figured you should know that by now."

"I do know that. But there, I don't _have _to run. I have a life."

"You _had _a life. Everyone thinks you're dead, Neal! _Everyone! _Not just your little friends! You don't _have _to run anymore!"

"Living a lie for safety is pretty much the same thing," I say.

"Oh, you sure about that, Neal Bennett?" Harleigh raises a brow.

How much does she actually know about me?

I sigh. Time for some honesty… "I don't care. I'll never be the same unless they know I'm alive. They're not just friends, Harleigh."

She sits back in disbelieving silence, watching me the whole time. I can feel the thought radiating off of her: _Who is Neal Caffrey? _After a few moments, she finally resents. "Okay, Neal. I get it. Obviously Peter's your Kaidan. I'll respect that."

_Just like her music is my artwork._

I sigh in relief, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. "Okay. Thanks."

She laughs, at a loss for words, shaking her head.

I glance at Mozzie. He seems happy, for the most part, but hesitant. I'll just talk to him later.

"I really thought we'd go somewhere, Caffrey," Harleigh says finally, "but I guess we just aren't meant to be." She smirks, probably thinking of our history. "Maybe some other time."

She stands, and we all begin to clean up our mess here. I work unconsciously, repeating to myself how that couldn't have gone better. Tonight, I'll be able to see everybody. It'll be tough, tears and shock guaranteed, and who knows? Tomorrow, I might even get my anklet back. Joy.

I sigh and smile, shoving my hands in my pockets. _I'm going home._

**Yaaay! Happy day! But what has Mozzie done? Now we've got Peter working on getting him home too! How will this turn out?**

**As you've probably suspected, the end is coming soon…. Yeah, that's right, be sad. I am! Anyway, review please! :D I love reviews! Oh and thanks to everyone who has already! I love you guys! You make my day!**


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